


My Brother, My Captain

by jetsam



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetsam/pseuds/jetsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he was pledged to the house of Anarion, it was his father who spoke the words.</p>
<p>“This is Faramir,” he said, resplendent in black velvet as he held the baby swathed in the white.  “Second son of Denethor, son of Ecthelion, son of Turgon, of the House of Hurin.  Here, with all of you as witness, I dedicate him to the service of Gondor, in need and in plenty, in peace and in war, in living and dying, from this hour henceforth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother, My Captain

The first time he was pledged to the house of Anarion, it was his father who spoke the words.

“This is Faramir,” he said, resplendent in black velvet as he held the baby swathed in the white. “Second son of Denethor, son of Ecthelion, son of Turgon, of the House of Hurin. Here, with all of you as witness, I dedicate him to the service of Gondor, in need and in plenty, in peace and in war, in living and dying, from this hour henceforth. This do I say, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King.”

And Faramir, tiny and dark haired and held up in front of the crowds packed into Merethrond, looked on silently and neither cried nor fidgeted when they looked back at him in solemn silence. At Denethor’s side, eyes fixed on Faramir, was Boromir, sturdy and unusually neat in a miniature version of his father’s black and silver, his mother’s hand on his shoulder keeping him steady in his place.

* * *

The second time that Faramir swore to Gondor, he was six and at play with all the other boys in his brother’s train. The others were all in the black and silver uniforms of the tower; Faramir was the only one still clad in a plain shirt and breeches, and should by all rights still have been under the eye of his nurse, if Boromir hadn’t charmed her with sweet promises and stolen him for the afternoon.

One by one they knelt on the grass before Boromir, enthroned on the edge of the wall, and gave their oaths as they would one day give them to him as Steward. Faramir was the last, though his rank should have given him precedence (just in case, they said, he needed the extra time to remember the words). He knelt without hesitation and placed his small hands between Boromir’s larger ones. Looking up into Boromir’s eyes, so very like his own, and meeting Boromir’s lopsided smile with a crooked one of his own, he began.

“‘Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor,” he said, and then paused thoughtfully as he dwelt on the words that came as naturally to him as the songs of the nursery. “To speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. This oath I give to you, my brother, my captain.”

Though he paused for a moment, Boromir laughed and released his hands, slipping off the wall and down to embrace him and ruffle his hair, with all of Minas Tirith spread out below them, pink-tinged with the start of the sunset. “And this do I hear, Boromir son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance. And methinks it is past time that I return you to your nurse, for Father will be wroth with me if you are not safely in her care when he returns.”

And though the other boys were sore tempted to tease him for altering an oath that had not been altered in centuries, Faramir was safely tucked under his brother’s arm and they dared not speak.

* * *

The first time that Faramir gave his oath for real, he was fifteen and newly come to a man’s height (though not yet a man’s breadth nor grace). With this birthday, he had been judged ready to lift his sword for real for the first time, and was to be sworn into service and sent out to Osgiliath under his brother’s command.

Though Merethrond was usually near empty for the oath takings of the young squires, the common folk thronged in for this as they had for his birth. Waiting with his peers in the antechamber beyond, Faramir watched them whispering excitedly to each other. The boy next to him looked near ready to lose his breakfast, though in truth there was little harm that could come to him at the centre of the Tower of Guard.

“They are but people, and it is well that they are here, for they are a welcome reminder of what we go to do.” Though he had spoken softly, he had the attention of most of the room now, both his old comrades in service in the Citadel, and the lordlings and their followings from the provinces sent to make their mark at Gondor's heart. “These are the folk we go to defend, the ones who will suffer the most should we fail in our trust.”

The lad lifted his chin and lost some of the uncertain look. Faramir clapped him on the shoulder as he had seen Boromir do to his men on the training yard, and felt as much as saw the others drawing in around them.

“There were but ten in the hall when my brother gave oath,” Ingold said, stepping up to Faramir's shoulder and sharing an easy smile of one who had grown up serving at high table. “We'll have a story to tell before we leave the citadel.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement at that, and Faramir looked around to meet as many eyes as he could “Come now, it's almost time.”

It was Faramir who led them out smartly to stand at attention before the great empty throne for the first time as a company of soldiers of Gondor, with black surcoats over shining mail not yet tarnished with years of wear. At Hurin's nod they went one by one to stand before the Steward and his heir, to pledge their lives to the Gondor. Of them, Faramir knelt first on the stone floor, with no sign of discomfort, and his father wrapped his hands around the sword that Boromir held for them, and Faramir smiled and this time spoke his oath with no deviations.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.”

The Lord Steward didn't smile, but Faramir had not expected him to. It was enough to meet the heady weight of his gaze and feel the responsibility settling about his shoulders like a hauberk, and perhaps to see some of the strain lifting even for a moment from his father's face.

* * *

It was decades later when he knelt in that hall again, this time before the great stone throne itself, and it was no longer empty. Merethrond too was not empty, for the great nobles of the realm thronged there, mingling with the great warriors of Gondor and Rohan and further afield, and for the first time Faramir stood first even among them. For the first time since his childhood, he was clothed not in black but in the white of the House of Hurin, and the weight across his shoulders was not armour but a velvet cloak in the deep green of Ithilien.

He knelt this time with less grace and more stiffness, for he found that on cold mornings he could still feel the echoes of the wounds that had laid him low. Even that made him almost smile, though, for it was this lord that had healed him.

He looked up as he raised his hands, and for a moment it was his father’s face he looked into, before the vision faded and it was Aragorn’s silver eyes and not his father’s grey. So he spoke with the quiet voice that he had learned from his father, that filled the silence of the hall and stilled even the fidgeting of the crowd.

“I hereby do swear fealty and service to Gondor and to the Righteous King of the Realm: To speak and to be silent. To do and to let be. To come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying until my lord release me, death take me or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor, Prince of Ithilien."

“And I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.” Aragorn raised Faramir to his feet and they looked upon each other as the still of the hall broke and the crowds cheered.

“This service shall be no hardship.” Faramir said, and some whimsy made him recall that day on the wall long ago and he finished the thought as he had originally intended. “My brother, my captain, my king.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened for a moment, and Faramir wondered if he had overstepped. Then Aragorn laughed, the years dropping from his face, and drew him close to kiss his brow, holding him steady for a long moment before letting him step back. “Thy seat awaits, my lord Steward.”


End file.
